“Booker, how bad is it?” I ask as we cross campus on the way back to our place.
“Not bad, I swear. He took his meds today, and yes, I checked.”
“But it’s bad enough I can’t get coffee?” I ask, my eyebrow raised.
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Coffee. Holy cow, the looks you two were giving each other were enough to scorch these pure, church-boy eyes. Scandalous, I’m telling you.”
“Looks we were giving each other? What the hell are you talking about? We barely exchanged two words.”
“My point exactly.” He nods, as we veer off to the left. “She was eyeing you up like a piece of cake. And you were looking at her like she holds the secret to your salvation. Which,” his tone turns serious, “Ty, you did--”
I cut him off because I can’t have this conversation. Not again. “Can we circle back to Whit?”
“If that’s how you wanna play it.”
“Yep.”
“Ok, then. So, yes to the meds, but also yes to the pacing. Something freaked him the fuck out, but he won’t say what. He just told me to round you guys up and he’d explain over dinner. He’s making pasta, so you know he needed somewhere constructive to put his energy.”
We walk up the paved driveway, and I see Knox’s car sitting with the taillights still glowing. He turns off the engine and steps out. “What’s with family night? It’s not Sunday. Is he okay?”
Booker nods. “On a scale of 1-10, it’s probably a 4. But better safe than sorry, yea?”
“No doubt,” Knox agrees, and I’m certain he’s remembering what happened last January. We were all scattered during the holiday break--and the three of us came home to find Whit only half-conscious from taking too many sleeping pills. He started puking before we got to the hospital, and he was cleared a few days later, but it was scary as hell, and none of us want him to go back there.
But I also know that rushing in and fussing all over him won’t help. We’ve been down this road before, so we know the drill. We all step inside and act casual. I grab a beer from the fridge. “Anybody else?”
“Hit me,” Knox says. He’s not even looking in my direction, but he catches the bottle effortlessly in his left hand.
“Yea, count me in. But just one. I’m training,” Book says, holding his hand up and catching a beer as well.
“When aren’t you training?” Knox asks.
“Uh...last weekend. Yea. That was my off-season.” Booker’s not really joking. Guy takes his hockey seriously, and he’s a fucking phenom. He’s constantly training or practicing or whatever. He didn’t go into the draft because his dad was against it, but there’s no doubt he’s the best player on Bainbridge’s team.
“How about you, chef? You drinkin?” I ask Whit, though he hasn’t acknowledged any of us yet.
“Nah, I’m good,” Whit tells me. His back is to me, but I can smell the aroma of the sauce from here. The kitchen is a fucking mess--flour, cheese, various pans and utensils all scattered across the marble countertops. I’m not worried. I’ll take clean-up duty later.
Whit’s banging around in drawers, looking for something I’m sure none of us can help him find. “Food will be ready in twenty. Will one of you hungry bitches set the table? And grab wine glasses and linen napkins. No fucking solo cups and paper towels. We’re not animals.”
Caleb Whitman is a few days short of his twenty-first birthday. He stands at 6’1” with sandy brown hair and clear blue eyes. He’s got a dimple in his left cheek that lets him get away with just about anything. He’s got a toothpaste commercial smile. I think his mom even had him do some TV ads and catalog shoots when he was a toddler. He’s a Communication Arts major, but his true love is music. He deejays the best parties on campus and knows enough music trivia from the last five decades to kick Michael McKean and Mark McGrath’s asses should the powers that be ever bring backRock & Roll Jeopardy.
To an outsider, it would look like he’s cooking up a storm--just using every dish in the damn kitchen on a random Monday night. But the set of his shoulders tells me otherwise. The way his fingers drum on the counter top, the way he can’t stop tapping his foot. My boy’s about five minutes from freaking the fuck out. He’s the most loyal guy I know. He’s been through some shit, like all of us, but his scars run deep.
So, when he starts acting more like an Italian grandma than a college student, we roll with it.
We set the table as we’re told to, and, as promised, in less than half an hour, we’re sitting down to dinner. Whit pulled out all the stops--homemade sauce, fresh ravioli in three varieties, a caprese salad, and artisan bread that he likely took his frustrations out on while kneading it. Still, it’s delicious.
“So, what’s with dinner?” Knox asks, refilling his wine glass for the second time, not that I’m counting. Okay, I’m totally counting. I worry about him. But right now, my worries are mostly focused on Whit, who shrugs in non-answer to Knox’s question.
“The hell, man? You text an SOS for family dinner, so I leave the Delta Rho house and the two girls who were making out with each other while I watched. I was just about to--”
Whit smiles. “Kylie and Becca? They’re hot as fuck. But I’m not apologizing. We missed yesterday because Booker was at a purity camp or some shit and you went home to Ronin’s soccer game. It’s been a while since we’ve had a nice meal together. Sue me for wanting to cook for my family.”
Booker stabs a bite of salad onto his fork, then looks up, as if weighing his words. “So, you’re good?”
“I’m not gonna jump out my third-story window, if that’s what you're asking.”
